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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24635284">Kirkland family drabbles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaurusDoodles/pseuds/TaurusDoodles'>TaurusDoodles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hetalia fankid short stories [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Human, Genderbending, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, fanchild</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:20:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,532</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24635284</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaurusDoodles/pseuds/TaurusDoodles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Short stories about Arthur Kikrland and his vast family.</p>
<p>No steady update schedule.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>England &amp; Wales (Hetalia), England/Female France (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hetalia fankid short stories [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Kirkland family drabbles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You were in the army, right dad? Di'ja kill people?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur’s jaw went slack from the sudden question. It opened and closed like a fish out of water. His breath caught in his throat. “I. Uh. W-well.” Arthur stammered. He glued his mouth shut tightly, unsure how to respond. What was he supposed to say? He was in the army, that was true. He was fresh out of high school when he joined. He skipped college for it to follow in his father’s and his second oldest brother’s footsteps. To make the family proud of him despite his failures. A rash and impared decision really. He stayed a private for the three years he was enlisted. Sometimes he thinks he’d wasted those three years of his life. And sometimes he’s sure of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you tell me the stories dad? I’m doing a paper for class.” Áine was stubborn. She would keep asking until she’s tired. This wasn’t going to be an exception. Arthur stayed quiet as he continued to stock the shelves. Áine swug her feet back and forth, thumping her heels on the crates of crisps she sat on. “Mr. Barkley was in the army too and he’s super big on veterans and stuff. So he wants us to submit papers in the upcoming veterans day celebration. I wanna write about you ‘cuz uncle Al is annoying. Planes are boring.” A shuddered breath racked his body as he began to relive the horrors of war. He hadn’t thought of it since he left in 1994. For reasons he’s barely told anyone. It’s never come up in conversation. It never needed to. Not until now. By his daughter no less.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mind began to wander to the trenches. Those muddy hell holes where nightmares never failed to visit. His fellow man slumped against the dirt walls or sprawled out on the dirt ground. Sleeping or dead. But what was the difference anyway? You’re as good as dead if you sleep, that's what Allistor would say. Poor bloke. Now he had a terrible sleep pattern from years of abstaining sleep every night, alternating it instead. And… Other things. Arthur too. He took sleep for granted. Now that he’s thinking about it, he took many things for granted. His wife. He should argue with her less. His children. He should take them to the park more. The family rabbit. He should let the children spoil him more. Life is short. Live it. Have fun. War can take it all away. War is a plague without a cure. A nightmare without an end. Hell on earth. Where good men go to die. A world outside of time. A year felt like four. Four felt like one. Young boys would leave with blood on their hands by age twenty, still new to the world but already exposed to so, so much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>DAD</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Arthur started with a jolt. He whipped around, his daughter tilting her head with a mix of confusion and worry. “Are you okay, dad?” Reality came crashing back to him in a whirlwind. He’d crushed the bag of crisps without knowing. Crumbs spilled onto the ground as the bottom of the bag had burst open. Arthur hesitantly nodded. “I’m fine. Just, uh, pass me the broom and pan. Thank you, sweetheart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Áine hopped down and turned for the sanitary closet, but then Arthur stopped her. He quickly said, “Ask your uncle Allistor. He has far more exciting experiences than I do. I’d just bore you.” It’s true. Allistor often told stories of his military days. Arthur nervously let a small chuckle slip. Áine was persistent however. The young girl looked at him puzzled. “But I’d like to hear from you. You’re interesting, dad. Everyone in class would think so too. Even Mr. Barkely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur’s legs began to wobble beneath him. She wanted to know, but she couldn’t know. She’s only eight. Much too young to know. She can’t know. She can’t know. He felt his knees threaten to buckle. He took a subtle breath in, gathering his barings. “Allistor was in the navy for years before I joined the military. And he was on a boat, I was still on boring land. He’s far more interesting. Boats are, uh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>cool</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He tried to debate. But unfortunately Áine was a Kirkland. “Water is boring. You shot at people. That’s cool.” He did. He shot at many innocent men. It was not cool. It hurt. They hurt. They never wanted the war. Neither did he. They were just pawns in their country’s game of chess. “I-I didn’t— I mean I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>but— but— s-shooting, its, uh b-b-bad….” Suddenly taking a breath became a hard task. How though? It was such a simple task. Something a baby could do. Breath dammit! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fucking breath</span>
  </em>
  <span>!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was like mud flooded his lungs. He felt as though he was stuck in quicksand. Time slowed down but he was still there in the present. Vision blurred. He felt dizzy. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Spinning around and around a merry go round that didn’t seem to end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A lanky strawberry blond stood in front of him. He was doubled over. Blood seeped out from under his askew helmet and into his eyes. He reached out his dirt and blood crusted hand, silently pleading for help. He stepped forward. He heard a low and raspy whine. Pain. He was in pain. More pain. More and more </span>
  <b>
    <em>pain</em>
  </b>
  <span>. He could feel hot pain scorching him all over. It coursed through Arthur’s veins. Then it settled in his abdomen. Shot. Shot, yes he was shot. He remembers now. His friend, his best friend, he was telling him he was shot. But he had himself to worry about. He was knocked off his feet mere minutes before. Hurt his head. Broke a rib. A bomb went off. Boom, it went. Loud and clear. From the south from here. Not far though. That’s what knocked him down. Poor boy. Poor innocent boy, fresh out of school and pushed into a war he’d never see the end of. His friend was a medic. A medic who needed help this time round. Someone needed to repay him for his gracious service. Arthur could help. He could help. He had medical experience. Just a bit but experience was experience. He could help. He could… He could… </span>
  <em>
    <span>He would be dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Everyone dies in war. You make it out alive? Still dead. No one survives. No survivors. Everyone is gone. Suddenly you’re all alone. You choke on the blood of your friends and enemies. And your own. Slowly but surely. Blood would fill your lungs and drown you from the inside out. Because you’re a monster. A wretched monster. You took human life and couldn’t save one. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. He could have lived. But you’re stupid. You’re stupid and wreckless and this world wasn’t for you. You could have been in college. Seen your little cousin go off to his first day of primary school. But you’re a fool. A fucking fool for signing up for hell of your own free will. No one forced you. No on told you to fucking go. You chose this because you’re a fucking imbecile. A twat. He was gone. He was gone. He was gone. All your fault.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Had to get out. Need to leave. Get ou</span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>t of this hell. Go. Go. Go. Had to go. Had to—</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The same green eyes looked into his. Only difference was eyelash length and the subtle wrinkles at the corners. A hand was on his shoulder. He was backed up into the shelf he was stocking minutes before. The edge dug into his spine. “It’s okay, Artie. Just breath for me, okay?” It was Dylan. Dylan and that soothing voice of his that reminded him so much of their mother. “You’re right here. You’re right now. Do you hear me? You understand? Nod for me if you can.” He did. Dylan nodded back. “Okay. Good. Good. Let’s have a seat then. Get some water. Rest a bit. That sound good, Artie?” Arthur nodded again, still trying to grasp at reality.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was right here. He was right now. He was not there. He was not in the mud. He was not shot. His best friend wasn’t begging for his help. No blood. No broken rib. No strawberry blond. He was in the old family shop. With his older brother. And his daughter. He was stocking the potato crisps and sodas. No uniform or gun. Just an apron and scanner. All was fine. Normal. Sane. It’s fine. It’s fine. Fine, fine, fine. Just…. Fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” Arthur rasped, throat parched. He tried to push his brother off but he persisted. Dylan kept him steady as his still shaking legs and his brain wouldn’t correspond. To his surprise his hand was being held. A small hand with cutesy flowered nail polish decals gripped his aging hand with short chewed nails. He looked down to see his frightened daughter, tears rolling down her cheeks. He squeezed reassuringly. Sorry for troubling her. Ashamed he scared her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine, darling. I’m fine.” He repeated like a machine.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Weird to say but I actually really enjoyed writing this. This was an impulse write out of boredom so it's not perfect of course. I also had been wanting to explore writing characters with PTSD without explicitly saying they had PTSD, so this was a good exercise. This is also vaguely based off of when I had asked my grandfather for a war story to base my English essay on. I kept asking, but I was too young and I didn't know the negative toll he could have from just recounting those tales. I understand now and honestly I beat myself up about that time still.</p>
<p>By the way, if you'd like you can send me prompts. I always try to challenge myself with random prompts!</p>
<p>I hope you enjoyed!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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